


who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, and King-like wears the crown

by rosesarebest



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon Compliant, Djinni & Genies, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, F/M, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Vaginal Sex, and Yennefer isn't immune to it, destiny works in mysterious ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesarebest/pseuds/rosesarebest
Summary: But first, a bath.He was built from marble, beautifully proportioned, and lacking any false modesty which left her free to gaze upon his muscular body wrapped in pale, scarred skin. She stepped into the bath and didn’t ask about the scars, glancing down at the four marks adorning her own wrists. Scars told the story of a survivor, someone who met a harsh world head on and kept going despite the pain.Someone like her.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, and King-like wears the crown

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I know Yennefer inspires a range of responses in fandom. She's integral to the storyline, she's powerful, and she's unapologetic about who she is. A complex character who I hope has even more development in S2.
> 
> I wanted to try and see Ep05 Bottled Appetites through her eyes, from the orgy to getting that D from one Geralt of Rivia (finally, some good fucking). She's so bored, and then this man crashes into her life and that changes everything; she just doesn't know it yet.  
> Jaskier and Chireadan appear but this focuses entirely on Yennefer. I hope I got her voice right. Also shout out to the writers for the four marks reference... letting Yennefer own her history.
> 
> As always, based on the show but hints of the book characters slide in too; I know nothing about game Yennefer.
> 
> Title from "Of old sat Freedom on the heights" by Tennyson.

* * *

Yennefer watched the writhing bodies with weary disdain. All she wanted after the horror of escaping her king’s hired assassin and burying the child she thought she’d saved was peace and quiet, the space to gather her thoughts and plan her next move. Who could object to her selling impotence cures and love potions? The mayor of Rinde, apparently. And where was he anyway? She’d teach him to summon her in shackles and demand taxes as though she were some common artisan. She worked for no-one but herself, not anymore.

Istredd had been so different. Though he was her first so perhaps she was bound to think of him more fondly than he deserved. Yennefer then was twisted in body but full of spirit, when she wasn’t full of Istredd, her passion and potential power on display for her created audience. She loved performing for them and he got a bit of a kick out of it too, despite his denials. She thought she was ahead of the game, but Istredd's betrayal showed her that someone was always keeping score. Tissaia was right about one thing; control was the key. Getting it, keeping it, exercising it at your command and yours alone.

She viewed her orgy with detachment. None of the people flaunting their sordid little fantasies interested her at all. But then something, or rather someone, caught her eye. A white-haired man walked towards her ignoring the naked throng, accompanied by another who swayed as though he’d been drinking. They made an odd couple; one tall and broad, dressed in black and moving with surprising grace, and the other slighter in build and limping along in ridiculous pale blue silk. Oh, and the tall one had the most unusual eyes. Interesting.

He stalked forward alone, leaving his companion among the festival of flesh, holding a heavy jug in one huge hand.

“I brought your apple juice.”

Yennefer gazed at the man, taking in his square jaw and golden eyes. He wasn’t as old as his ratty white hair suggested, and there was a definite whisper of chaos about him. A Witcher. She hadn’t encountered one before, and attraction stirred in her belly as she moved closer. By the gods he smelled horsey, but she had a feeling he’d scrub up well.

“I thought you had fangs or horns or something.”

Unfazed by her scrutiny, he held his ground. “I had them filed down.”

That voice was somehow both gritty and smooth. They talked, and he was just what she needed. Less affected by her magic but not immune to her considerable charms, asking for help, and in possession of something she desperately wanted.

“And then, if you'd like, I’ll indulge your curiosity all night long.” His eyes never left hers.

He had no fear of flirting with a sorceress, but he was a fool. Who agrees to pay a mage an unspecified price? Didn’t he realise that offering _anything_ usually meant being stripped of _everything_?

Well, things were shaping up nicely. She would heal his companion, exact revenge from the idiots who were trying to control her, and get a ~~mutant~~ real man in her bed. A witcher was a strong and trusty weapon she could use. Hopefully he wouldn’t need her magical virility enhancements because that would be too disappointing.

Destiny smiled upon her that day; the chance to capture a djinn was worth any risk. Finally, an answer to both her quests; power without limits, and the legacy of a child from her own body. Witcher revealed his cards too easily, seeming not to understand their value. That made her task even simpler. But first, to business. And that meant a bath.

He was built from marble, beautifully proportioned, and lacking false modesty which left her free to gaze upon his muscular body wrapped in pale, scarred skin. She stepped into the bath and didn’t ask about the scars, glancing down at the four marks adorning her own wrists. Scars told the story of a survivor, someone who met a harsh world head on and kept going despite the pain.

Someone like her.

Despite the stories painting witchers as little more than the monsters they hunted, the witcher’s touch was gentle but assured. He dragged soft lips along her neck, nibbling but not so as to mark, then worried sharp teeth where her neck met her shoulder until she gasped. While his hands traced her sides, her skin tingling in their wake, he wrapped his mouth around each nipple in turn till it hardened. Heat bloomed in her belly as she arched upwards, but he held his body away and denied her contact. Instead she pressed her hands against arms that remained steady as he sucked harder, drawing a moan from her parted lips. Heat became fire, and she realised that she was going to come just from this, without a word or a touch to her wet, swollen core. She threw back her head and moaned loud and long, hips thrusting upwards against the hot length of him.

Still breathless, she opened her eyes to meet his. He was not flushed or even breathing hard, but there was desire in his eyes and a confidence she found alluring even as she wanted to puncture it. It would take more than that to impress her. Very few had.

“Not bad, witcher,” she drawled as he dropped open mouthed kisses down her abdomen. “A fine appetiser—”

Geralt dipped his head between her thighs and Yennefer forgot her words. He traced the length of her, flicked his tongue against her clit, and matched his mouth to every undulation and tremor of her flesh. She arched off the bed, bucked and roared, and he held her hips lightly while his tongue probed her folds in a promise of more. Her skin was on fire with long-forgotten pleasure.

She was curious about whether he might try to take her from behind like a rutting dog or pin her beneath his bulk. Yennefer preferred to be on top, always, but her magic would compensate for his purely physical strength if need be. She was surprised then to find her hips cradled in his hands while he pushed inside slowly, watching her reaction with dilated pupils ringed by a sliver of gold, filling her completely before resting within her, hot and deep. His skin held magic she didn’t understand, quite unlike the warm passion she'd shared with Istredd.

His chaos might have lacked power but it was tempered with a kind of wildness she longed to taste more of, to know and encompass.

“Witcher,” she gasped.

He tilted his head minutely and set a rhythm at once satisfying in its smoothness and maddening in its measured tempo. She forgot to goad and sneer, the words lost in endless push and retreat and glide, hitting the spot that made her writhe and moan. He shifted position and oh gods, nothing should feel that good. She locked her ankles around his waist and pulled him deeper.

Sparks turned to flame, pleasure coiled and wound tighter, and he kept moving, kept her shuddering in waves. Still he gave her more, and they burned for each other until he swelled and pulsed inside her, finishing with a low growl that echoed in her bones. She stretched in her sweat-slicked skin, sated like a cat that got the entire pail of cream.

He'd surprised her in bed, and that was rare. What a pity such a virile man was barren, too.

Afterwards, dressed in form-fitting leather created for her own aesthetic pleasure, the witcher stood over his sleeping companion wearing a furrowed brow of concern. She wasn’t sure what this friendship consisted of, since his emotions were buried deeper than a surface scan of his rather limited thoughts could reveal. But he did seem to care - after all he'd offered any price to cure his friend. No matter. He had work to do, and she took one last scented kiss before sending him into the town, mindlessly pliant. Yes, he’d scrubbed up very nicely indeed.

Yennefer wanted revenge on her petty enemies and the last djinn wish in order to gain untold power. Hardly too much to ask for, surely. Not nearly the _everything_ that she’d claimed before dismissing Tissaia, a tired old teacher now surpassed by her least favourite student; but enough, for the moment. When the sick man woke up healed it was a simple task to intimidate him, but though he sang and babbled when the knife threatened his balls, her plan wasn't working. He fled, and she cursed her luck.

Then the candles flared in the summoning circle, the house shook, and the air suddenly thrummed with chaos, dark and malevolent. This, she understood. She chanted. Power boiled in her gut. The djinn shrieked and fought her will, but she would win. And then there stood the witcher she had no further use for, trying to stop her. The absolute fucking _audacity_ of men. She needed no-one's help, his least of all, and she spat rage-filled words at him.

But he had the wish.

Her spine bent backwards at an impossible angle, as though all the new bonds formed at her ascension were about to shatter and leave her a puddle of bone shards and scorched flesh on the ground. The djinn wrapped around her vocal cords and wrung words from her throat, offering the witcher his heart's desire. _Wish damn you, and let me have my prize._

Yennefer clung on to her body, her mind. Her grip on her own chaos loosened, but she would not back down.

Never never _never you will obey me_

She had been torn apart and remade once. She could survive another trip to the crucible and emerge stronger, the strongest of all. It was what she was owed. What she was destined for.

Every cell in her body strained and cracked at invisible seams, but still she held her form together through the hurricane war raging beneath the skin. 

_I am more more more than this vessel will hold_

_I am more than enough_

_I will have no master_

_I will not yield_

_I will be free_

The djinn fought to slip from her steel-willed grip and she dug deeper, past the marrow in her bones to the very essence of her being. The entity wavered on the edge of surrender, clawing red striped agony through her gut, yet she endured as she had endured in Aretuza. She bore the pain. Almost there. She took a breath. The pressure built. And it found a minuscule weakness in the cage of her flesh and magic.

The amphora-womb-vessel painted on her abdomen bled apart and dissolved as the djinn shrieked and roared its rage. Yennefer screamed her frustration as the most potent source of chaos she'd ever encountered burst free and streamed through the broken walls, up and away into the brooding sky, gone. The mutant fool watched the roof crumble above them. He grabbed her and for a moment there was a golden shimmer around them, but his pathetic attempt at protection was completely inadequate. She regained her composure enough to portal them to the ground floor where they landed in a tangled heap amongst scattered furniture. Thankfully the rest of the tower held. Chaos vibrated faintly in the air and faded as the sun emerged once again. Her fury exploded.

“I had it!”

“It would have killed you!”

Damn all the gods and Melitele herself. The very best chance that Destiny had brought her in years, offered and then squandered by a mutant who wasn’t even a proper magic user. A man who had been her puppet but nonetheless tried to save her, misguided as it was. A man who dragged well-hidden desires to the surface and clearly wanted her despite everything.

 _Well fuck that._ So she did.

She claimed his lips and licked into his mouth without waiting, gratified when his tongue met hers stroke for stroke. Wet for him, she tore open his trousers and rode him in a frenzy of a different kind as he groaned and bucked beneath her, thrusting hard and fast the way she needed. She buried her teeth in his neck and buried his blessed cock deep enough in her that she almost forgot the emptiness in her centre for a moment as they peaked together, snarling and fierce as any wild beast. And the audience of man and elf peeping at the window was not conjured but real this time, full of regret and envy as they witnessed her satisfaction.

_Behold, and weep that you are not the one._

Gods, what a tumultuous day. She'd almost captured a djinn and she’d fucked a witcher. Though she didn’t get to hear the wish he’d made, she let Geralt sleep. His face could be called handsome she supposed, in a rough kind of way by those with less discernment. No lines marred his forehead. He'd found a measure of peace while she was yet restless, her itch scratched but not banished.

Yennefer stood with a sigh. Back to her search - but first, a bath. The witcher could find his own way out.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Geraskier (like a whole lot) but Yennefer is important, okay?  
> Normal programming will resume soon with our fave idiots in love.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos always treasured, they make new words grow!


End file.
